


Where You Were, Where You're Needed

by HollowMachines



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2020-10-12 20:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20570627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowMachines/pseuds/HollowMachines
Summary: Where the hell were you? Those damnable words again.This time he thinks,not where I needed to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *rolls up 2 years late with a lot of feelings*
> 
> Just a self-indulgent follow-up scene with Collins, post-evacuation.

_Where the hell were you?_

That same soldier finds him again, a little ways through the crowd. Collins is too busy staring at the sea of black boots shuffling around him, exhaustion pulling at every limb and every nerve, so he doesn’t notice the soldier until he’s suddenly clutching his lapel. Pulled to a harsh stop, Collins stares down at the rough hand dragging him back to reality; forcing him back into a world he’s still trying to make sense of.

There’s so much animosity burning in the soldier’s eyes, almost brimming with tears. He grits out his question again, spiting every word slowly.

“Where. The. Hell. Were. You?”

Of course, Collins has an answer. 

He flew the skies, fought bravely, came crashing to earth only to be nearly swallowed by an unforgiving sea. He could tell this man about the smell of sea salt, the feeling of weightless limbs as water climbed into his cockpit, the sound of his own panicked breathing as he’d tried and tried and _tried _to get free of his plane; once a trusted companion, now a fifteen-hundred tonne coffin.

He can tell how he was saved by an unlikely old sea captain and his son, only to end up hauling equally unlucky boys from the waters. He could regale the man with the sight of burning waves, the slick sensation of oil across skin, the unrelenting screams of dying men that will haunt his dreams for years, if the nightmares don’t drown him in the channel first.

What good will that do though, really? He _had _been meant for the skies, but he’d been cruelly cast down from the clouds, grounded too fast and too soon. Nearly drowned. All planes lost. Their section leader dead without so much as a sound. And_ Farrier_…

_I tried_, he wants to say. _We tried. We fought. _

_And I survived._ _I came back. Just me._

What kind of answer is that to these men?

“You flyboys just too good for the fight, eh?” The man spits, pulling enough to drag Collins down so they’re nearly eye-to-eye. “Just sitting on your arses while we’re all waiting to die on the sand?" 

The hand in his lapel crushes around his pilot wings, choking the very thing he _is_.

"Couldn’t give a damn about anyone but yourselves. Bloody pricks, the lot of you.”

Calm slowly turns to anger inside him. It’s work to bite back any hastily venomous response.

The _arrogance _this man has to challenge him, to demand some sort of explanation from him. He did his duty, he kept their boys safe. Every screaming muscle, every aching breath, every soaked and shivering limb, every restless night he knows is coming is proof enough; he doesn’t owe this man anything.

He knows what it’s like to fly, and what it’s like to fall. He knows the war in the air these boys will never see. His heart is as heavy with loss as any old soldier’s would be; it’s a familiar thing when you take to the skies. 

But even so, he understands this frustration; every man on that beach has a _right _to be angry. They’re looking for a release, a target to aim at, someone to blame for the hell they’ve endured and give reason to this chaos. Maybe Collins can even entertain the idea that he deserves some of that anger. He’d lost focus and gotten himself shot down after all, and in the end he’d left Farrier alone in the air.

Or maybe he’s just an easy target. 

Regardless, whether or not he deserves blame, it certainly won’t be from some soldier who has _no idea_. There’s a vicious churning in his stomach at these words so carelessly spat against his fellow pilots, his fallen comrades, against _Farrier; _after everything they’ve done, everything they’ve given_._

Stuck somewhere between exhaustion and distress and rage, he stews. Because he knows the truth, but this whole damn mess has brought everyone to the precipice. There's only so much they can endure. He cannot ask this man to care or to understand or to rationalize this nightmare.

There’s not much else he can do but hold his ground. 

With what little strength he has left Collins takes a careful step forward, pushing back against the hand on him, stone-faced and intimidating as he glares down at the man. It’s a look of contempt, a ‘_who the hell do you think you are?’ _kind of look that has the soldier shrinking back, flinching under the sudden scrutiny. Collins grips tightly around the man's wrist, feeling bones grind under his fingers. It's neither a challenge nor a threat, just a warning to leave off.

With a shove Collins is sent stumbling back into a rickety table, a few blankets slipping to the ground from the force. There’s a painful bite of wood against his legs and the sting of splinters digging into his palms where he’s hastily caught himself. Still he doesn’t waste a breath on words, only watches this nearly hysteric soldier staring right back. He’s practically fuming, and something wild flickers in his eyes. Collins braces for a fight.

Suddenly a new hand lands on the man’s arm before he can raise his newly clenched fist, carefully dislodging shaking fingers from Collins’ now wrinkled blues.

“Come on, mate,” the newcomer says ushering his friend along, though the look he gives Collins is no kinder. “He ain’t worth it.”

Collins doesn’t bother to watch them disappear into the sea of uniforms. He just stares at the muddy ground, trying to breathe through every emotion welling up at once. Between the roaring in his ears and the pounding of his heart, he isn’t sure which is worse, which part of him will crack first.

The world feels wrong under his feet. It’s too slow. He’s too heavy. There’s no freedom down on earth anymore. The sounds and smells are all wrong, and his body can still feel the phantom vibrations of his plane. Once you taste the sky, you will forever yearn for it; at least that’s what they always said. Right now he wishes for nothing else but to be back in that great blue emptiness. Everything seemed so simple up there.

It used to, at least. The last few hours won’t stop whirl-pooling around his head, daunting and dreadful.

There’s a shuffling behind him, then a rough hand, old and worn, prods at his arm as if feeling for it. All at once Collins deflates and rights himself again, turning to apologize to what he sees now is an older gentleman in civilian clothing standing across the table.

“You’re a pilot, son?” the man says before Collins can get a word out, still handing out blankets to the passing soldiers.

He keeps his head bowed, not meeting his eyes, and Collins doesn’t have to guess for the reason. He’s heard enough war stories to know.

“Aye, sir.” It’s harder than he expects to find his voice again.

The man nods minutely. “Did you fly?”

Collins frowns, hesitating for a moment. “I-aye, I did. Over the Channel.”

“Then you were where you ought to be.”

Even in the dark of night his eyes wander back over the shuffling rows of soldiers and scalding stares– towards the sand, towards the crashing waves, towards that lonely beach in France. Collins runs a shaking hand through his hair, still slick with sea water, and tries to quell the hollow ache in his chest.

“Doesn’t seem to have mattered.”

The man tilts his head in Collins’ direction, face unreadable in the dim light. “It did, lad. It does.”

_They know where you were_, that old captain had said to Collins, eyes full of pity. Or perhaps it was the ghosts of his own past –his own son– reflected in the young man before him that had painted such grave sympathy across his face.

“You lads in blue flock together,” the man says quietly, so careful he sounds as if he’s afraid of breaking glass. “I don’t suppose…”

The question hangs heavy over Collins’ head, and he isn’t sure how to answer. He’s not sure he _can_, without shattering to pieces.

“It’s… just me now,” he says, mouth dry, tongue like lead. “One of our men went down in the Channel. And my… my _friend_, he….”

Collins slams his hand down against the table, body sagging as he forces the air from his lungs. His eyes turn skyward, swallowed into the blackness and helplessly lost.

“Dammit, Farrier,” he mumbles shakily. He can’t trust himself to say what else is knocking around behind his teeth. 

He’s supposed to be able to shake off these losses; bury the feelings in silent farewells and a few pints of alcohol. But this is different – the loss of a friend, a partner, a brother-in-arms. Someone he’s known for what feels like a lifetime, someone he's come to care for more than most things in his life.

Someone he can’t simply lay to rest.

The old man shuffles around the side of the table, fingers drifting along the wood until he’s standing beside Collins, and a kind hand falls on his shoulder. It feels too much like the comforting hand Farrier used to offer him.

“Did he go down, son?”

“No,” Collins says, jaw clenching tight as he replays in his mind the sight of Farrier’s plane gliding back towards the beaches. The horrid silence as his engine went dead, and Collins unable to do anything but watch on as he sailed towards home, losing sight over the horizon. “Well, I don't rightly know, really. But he... he stayed behind_._”

The man squeezes his shoulder like a father comforting a child. Collins bows his head, hair drooping into his eyes and sending cold drops of water down his face. 

Maybe that lack of closure is the worst part - he can't dull the ache, can't commit to a singular storm of emotions, because he _doesn't even_ _know_. 

“He made a choice, by the sounds of it.” The man says, though not without sympathy, as if that should make Collins feel better.

Of course Farrier made a choice; he had always been that way. If there was something to be done, he did it. He was a true testament to tenacity and perseverance, something Collins had long admired. Not a man without fear, but a man who could look that fear in the eye and conquer it when needs must.

"They can pin as many medals or titles on me as they like," Farrier had once told Collins over drinks one night. "That's not why I'm here."

He just wanted to be where it mattered. 

“He didn’t need to,” Collins says almost harshly, despite the shame sinking into his heart like a stone at the thought. It wasn't a matter of _need_, and he knows it. “He shouldn’t have _had _to.”

It doesn’t matter now, though. Whether dead or captured, he’s _gone._

There’s almost a bitter irony to it. Back at base, it’d been sort of assumed after a while that Farrier would always be the one to return. Death could not seem to touch him like it could all the rest. Certainly Collins had never imagined any other outcome; it was sadder to think too much of futures you may not have, lives you may not lead. But there was never time to be scared anyhow, or to weigh the odds. So they always went up, and whether by skill or luck or the sheer will of God, Farrier always survived.

It became their ritual, of sorts; their only words to each other before every sortie.

“See you in the air,”Farrier would always say.

“See you on the ground,” Collins would always answer.

A fragile promise to survive, a good luck charm, tempting fate – whatever they wanted to call it.

But it’s _why _Collins had spent the better part of his time on shore searching the crowd for any signs of Farrier; begging for a flash of that familiar Irvin jacket, a dark and ruffled head of hair, a face he’s come to know better than his own. 

Time had passed; men came and went, and still nothing. Disheartened and nearly at the point of collapse, Collins had resigned to simply shuffling aimlessly with the flow of soldiers, letting his thoughts cloud over.

Every limb dragged, nausea clawed at his throat, dizziness made his vision swim. 

It was then Collins realized it wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ imagine this outcome; it’s that he’d _refused _to imagine it, fearful of what it would do to him. What it would mean.

For the first time he'll be returning to base alone – the sole survivor of a sortie gone horribly wrong – and in a sea of infantrymen who have nothing but animosity for his wings.

But he’ll take that hate, if the trade-off means Farrier issafe; if it means he’ll be here and they can both go home. If it means they can live to face the oncoming war together.

Something in his mind conjures Farrier's all-too-soothing voice, a whisper of a distant memory.

"I'd hate to have to fly without you, Collins."

"Don't leave me flying without you either, then, Farrier."

Farrier had only laughed, and Collins had smiled, both of them hiding from the looming sense of death they lived with every day.

A broken promise - though one neither of them could ever truly lie about keeping.

Now it's only a loss; a loss Collins feels like nothing he’s ever felt before_. _Like he's drowning still, water choking his lungs, being dragged down into a cold dark abyss. Perhaps that would have been preferable to this.

_Where the hell were you_? Those damnable words again.

This time he thinks, _not where I needed to be_.

“He may yet be alive, son,” the old man says.

Collins almost scoffs, but thinks better of it. Cynicism never was a good look for him; Farrier, funnily enough, had been the one to tell him that.

“He may very well have found his way to one of those ships. On his way home right now.”

Every part of Collins is unbelievably heavy, but somehow he manages to lift his head again. There’s still a few ships sailing in from across the channel, and he straightens his back as he watches them come ashore. 

“I don’t think… I _can’t_…” He feels like a child again, the way he stumbles over his words, stubbornly refusing. 

Another squeeze of his shoulder. “It’s alright, son. It doesn’t hurt to hope.”

_But it can destroy you_, Collins wants to say, because he’s seen it do just that to others like him, but he bites his tongue.

It seems fruitless, daring himself to have that kind of faith against all odds. _Prepare for the worst_, they’d told him, _and move on_. There’s no time to mourn in war. 

With a dry swallow he finds himself forcing the words past his lips anyways – maybe that way he’ll believe them.

“Right… He’ll come back. ‘Course he will.”

It’s like struggling to keep his head above water all over again. 

“And when he does, he may need someone there waiting for him, I reckon.” The old man smiles – solemn though it is – and pats his shoulder once more, pushing a scratchy woollen blanket towards Collins. “Last train won’t leave for a little while yet.”

When the old man offers a hand, Collins shakes it amicably, forcing a smile more for himself than anything.

He’s wrung out, body and mind screaming for relief, in dire need of food and sleep and someplace to collect himself. He could hop on that train, curl into a seat and try to escape this world for a few hours, warm and sated. It’s all so close now.

Instead he turns on his heel, drapes the blanket over his shoulders, and pushed back through the crush of bodies.

His wings and the blue if his uniform are hidden well under the thick, warm wool, and he’s grateful for the newfound anonymity. The only eyes on him now are those of questioning onlookers, wondering where the hell he could be going when they’d finally made it home.

It won’t truly be home, though. Not really, not for him. Not like this. 

Perhaps he’s being cruel to himself, refusing to smother that tiny flicker of hope in his gut. 

But they’d _promised_, after all, like they always did. In the air, on the ground, they would see each other again. 

The darkness swallows him as he ventures away from the lights and the people, until he finds a suitably lonesome place to stand. Frigid wind chills his face and stings his eyes where he's poised by the water, waves licking teasingly at the wood and stone beneath him. There’s an unusual calmness in the quiet, with his teeth digging into his lower lip to stop their chattering while his icy fingers keep him cocooned in the blanket. He stares out as if he can pierce the darkness across the channel all the way to France and meet a lonely pair of eyes staring back.

What a sight he must be; a lonely pilot, soaked and sea-stained and rattling down to the bone, standing sentinel by the water, turned from home as if begging to go back. It's not that, though; he will never miss today.

No, it's the part of his heart he's left in France, a piece of himself lost somewhere across the sea.

He doesn’t believe in miracles – no place for it lately – but if he can do one thing, he can at least believe in Farrier.

So it’s there he stands, and it’s there he waits. 

Where some men may remember a hero guarding the beaches that day, history will surely forget his name. History won't know the touch of his hands, the shine of his smile, the warmth of his eyes, the flame of passion he took to every battle.

But Collins does. He won't let Farrier become just another number, forgotten out there all alone. 

_Where the hell were you?_

_I’m right where I need to be._

“Come on, Farrier. Come on,” he mutters to himself over and over, as if watching that beautiful Spitfire soaring through the skies all over again; her and her pilot, born to fly.

“Come home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't sure if I was going to write the continuation to this, but I finally have, so here we are.

He waits. 

Farrier doesn’t return.

Just as the fourth hour turns over, final boarding is called. Collins only just makes it onto the last train in the early hours of the morning. By then he’s stumbling like a newborn from the stiff ache of his legs, and suffering a bone-deep chill. He doesn’t dwell too much on the hollow pit in his chest, or the tremble of his fingers, or the chatter of his teeth.

Instead, as the sky sinks deeper into blackness, he curls into the last available seat on the train, swaddles himself in his scratchy wool blanket, and drowns out the quiet but incessant chatter of weary soldiers around him. 

In the darkness behind his eyelids, he curses himself for daring to hope.

Sleep is fitful, interrupted by sudden flashes of water and fire and smoke that nearly jerks him out of his seat. Nausea claws at his empty stomach as the train rocks like the rhythm of waves. His breast pocket is despairingly empty of both his cigarettes and lighter.

By the time they pull into the station nearer London, shuffling out like weak and weary zombies, it’s past dawn. Collins, in his stupor, could only imagine the mood would be bleak upon his return. So deeply shaken is he that he wonders how the world cannot also be in shock. 

But here in England it's just another crisp spring morning, the clouds faint wisps overlapping ribbons of orange and pink, slowly fading to blue. The sun peeks up over the horizon to set a fiery glow to the fields as they pass. Outside of the choking streets and bustle of the city, it's quiet aside from the occasional birdsong. It's peaceful.

The world doesn’t give a damn about the struggles of men. 

By mid-morning, Collins finally makes it back to the airfield. Upon his arrival his ears are instantly bombarded by the sound of Spitfires and Hurricanes taking flight, their engines roaring down the runways. He used to love that sound, and perhaps he still does. One incident like this won’t finish him so easily. But right now, still fresh and raw and exposed, he wants nothing more than to sink into a quiet oblivion, far away from that familiar tune.

He’s greeted rather enthusiastically by those of his squadron still on the ground, his Squadron Leader among them. Of course reports had come quickly of the events that transpired over Dunkirk, but Collins is forced to relay the story himself to eager, waiting ears. He weaves the tale with cold and calculated words, all the while his fingers digging hard cuts into his palms and tension set deep in his shoulders. 

When he mentions the loss of the others in _ Fortis _section, no one dares say Farrier’s name out loud to his face. His CO only nods sympathetically and drops a comforting hand on his shoulder, tells him he’s grounded for the day to rest, and he’ll be back in formation tomorrow.

Of course Collins knows this; expects it. 

The war rages on, as it is destined to do.

He makes it back to the barracks and locks himself away in his room for a time. With slow movements lacking his usual precision he toes off his boots and finally peels out of his salt-stained uniform, a quiet relief as he abandons his tunic over the back of the chair. His pilot wings stare back at him as if taunting his fortunes. 

The room itself is different somehow, too. It's a gaping space, much too big for just him. The bed across from his is empty; a worn book on the nightstand, a slight rumpling in the top cover, and a duffel bag shoved underneath the only indication of once being occupied. It feels like miles away.

Collins inhales sharply, like knives in his lungs. With the haste of a madman he digs a cigarette out from the pack in his nightstand and gets it between his lips, bringing it to light. The first inhale sends a much needed warmth deep into his chest, and he holds it there until his lungs burn and scream for air. With a throaty exhale he slumps down into his bunk, staring across at the other.

He doesn’t want to go through Farrier’s things. Not now, and he's not sure there will be an 'ever'. The thought alone makes pressure build behind his eyes, and he curses his own unbecoming nature under his breath while wiping at his face.

The cigarette burns low, forgotten as he sinks deep into his own thoughts. 

He tries and fails to expel the memories of drowning in the suffocating tomb of his cockpit, salt water filling his nose and his mouth, dragging him down into a watery grave. He rubs absently at the bruised skin of his knuckles and palms, along lingering phantom pains from trying to beat his way through stubborn Perspex.

He tries to forget the smell of oil and fire, but he only ends up making his stomach curl and his skin tingle, feeling horribly unclean. If he closes his eyes too long, he can trade the rumble of engines outside for the screams of burning men.

He thinks of Farrier, his plane disappearing over the horizon, engine silent, propellers deathly still. If Collins had been up there, would things be different? Farrier wouldn't have had to face their enemy alone, forced to over exert his plane and exhaust his fuel. 

Collins can still hear it as radio static in his ears; Farrier calling his name as he’d made his descent towards the water below. A plume of smoke trailing behind. The rush of a calm swell rising up to meet him. Farrier chasing the enemy pursuer off his wounded tail. 

If he'd known those would be the last words he'd hear…

His jaw goes tight, hands ringing painfully between his knees. Something like anger swells around the ache in his chest; anger at himself, a sense of guilt for being so careless. Of course he's responsible for himself in the air, but it's hard not to feel at least partially responsible for a friend, as well.

_ Friend_. What a cruel word in this place.

Farrier himself had been the one to warn Collins of the dangers of getting too close to your mates.

“Getting too attached can get you in trouble,” he’d said casually, in this very room, apparently echoing the words their CO had spoken to him early in his career. “It can cloud your judgement, make you emotional. That’s no bloody use to anyone.”

Collins had only scoffed, giving Farrier a pointed look.

_ What a damn hypocrite. _

Of course, a quirk at the corner of Farrier's mouth and the embers of defiance behind his eyes told Collins he was thinking the same of himself.

Farrier was well known to be close with most - if not all - the lads on the base, and a number of the WAAF, as well. The two of them had certainly become fast friends, with no small amount of effort on Farrier’s part the moment Collins had arrived on base. Time and experience yielded a closer bond than most families could ever boast.

It was… something else though, unique to them, in a way. Something rare, something they had that didn’t come cheap. Brotherhood, perhaps? It's difficult to name, even now.

Well, more fool him. Suppose Farrier would be telling him off right now, were he still here to see Collins this way. Or maybe that's what he feels like he deserves, but he knows Farrier isn't so unkind. He’d understand, empathize. They meant a great deal to each other after all, even if they never said it.

The walls begin to close in, and Collins storms out of the room.

All the way out he thinks about the photograph he has tucked into his flight log. It's of the two of them posed in front of their Spits, Farrier’s arm slung tight over Collins' shoulder to drag him down to even height, and laughter-induced smiles on both their faces. Part of him wants to keep it safe as a near and dear memory. Part of him wants to set it alight so he can never be reminded of simpler times before all this insanity started.

The rest of the day is spent wandering around the aerodrome or lounging around the dispersal hut, drinking enough tea to ease his restless spirits and greeting the others as they come back from sortie after sortie. A few damaged planes return, but luckily there’s no more losses, though one of the newer boys is wounded in the leg from a shot through the fuselage. He’s just damn lucky it didn’t spark his engine.

Come last light he huddles with the others in the Mess Hall and tries to keep down the first real food he’s had since returning. His stomach rumbles and groans in a mix of delight and aggravation. Suppose he deserves it. He doesn’t find much energy to talk, but between picking at his food and staring holes in the table he manages to pull up a weak smile or chuckle with the lads. Farrier had always been able to drag a smile out of him even on his more dower days, but he’s no longer an assured and sturdy presence at his side. 

Dinner starts to protest in his stomach, and Collins excuses himself early that evening.

That night he sleeps no better than on the train. He’s jolted awake numerous times by nightmares and his own flop sweat and screams, and before dawn he’s up with his squadron, back in action like nothing had ever happened. No one mentions the dark circles under his eyes, and he avoids any discussions of his last flight. Hardened and combat focused; it’s how he must be if he’s to survive the rest of this.

The fight isn’t over; the war is knocking on Britain’s door.

First light approaches, and it’s like being stuck in a hazy dream standing out by his new Spitfire as he had done only days before. The ground crew go through final checks of the Flight’s planes, the pilots all huddled up around a cloud of smoke as they try to force themselves awake. Collins is quiet still, staring south absently towards the coast. 

_ There’s still boats coming in_, they’d said. 

_ There’s still a chance_, they'd said.

Collins thinks back to that old blind man on the docks. A kind man, but wholly misguided.

_Farrier did his duty_, they’ll say instead, in a few days time. _ He made a heroic sacrifice. _

To Hell with that.

When Collins is directed to get to his plane, he manages only a few steps before his legs lock, leaving him frozen in place. Something in his chest sinks, coils and rampages as he stares at his plane, all smooth curves and dusty metal. His body sways slightly, hands twitching around the straps of his parachute. Every breath comes short and ragged. It’s like being in the water again; no, like being _ underwater _ again. The cockpit glares back at him, teasing, suffocating, threatening.

Someone - his Flight Lieutenant, he thinks - calls his name, yells at him to get moving as engines roar to life.

He takes a few shaky steps to the side, leans a hand on the tail of his plane, and throws up into the grass. 

After a moment of loud hacking and dry heaving until his stomach has thoroughly expelled his breakfast, he wipes a hand across his mouth and clamours up into his plane without a word. His body shakes from the violent attack, his throat is burning and scratchy, but he persists, strapping his oxygen mask over his face just to even his breathing as he seals himself into his cockpit and tries not to imagine it filling with water. He eyes the release cord and the seal of the canopy, fiddling below to feel for his flare gun still in its holster, just in case.

He opens the throttle, follows the others down the runway, and refuses to think about Farrier not being on his wing. 

No one says anything about his incident. He’d be liable to punch them if they did.

Their Flight flies in and out all through the morning, just six planes dark against the white nothingness of the sky. It’s overcast today, with low hanging clouds that they graze through as they cross the Channel and over France’s quickly diminishing allied territory. That towering plume of thick black smoke from the oil fields acts as a guiding line towards the beach and the ever-encroaching enemy.

Even as they encounter German bombers and their fighter escorts, with every twist and turn Collins keeps his eyes on the dull grey skies ahead, desperate to keep them from the waves and white caps below. He has to remind himself he’s not spiralling, he’s not sinking down into the abyss. He trusts his squad mates; they’re on his wing, in his ear, at his back, as always. 

_ Farrier isn’t, though. _

Down below, ships - civilian and destroyers alike - run the route between the shores. His treasonous mind conjures up the thought that perhaps, just maybe, Farrier is down there on one of those ships right now, on his way back home safe and sound. Collins stamps out those prospects quickly and brutally. 

He downs one fighter, dogging him like a man possessed, but when it plummets in flames and shatters on the water’s surface, it means little to him. That past enthusiasm and naivete of a fresh-faced pilot is already a dying light inside him. It’s what got him caught out the last time, and he’s always been a fast learner.

“I’ve got one on my tail!” Someone calls over the radio.

Collins spots his pursuer first, and turns to give chase.

“I’m on him,” he says down the radio, then clamps his mouth closed, teeth crushing together. A lump forms in his throat, the words like acid on his tongue.

His thumb crushes too hard against the firing button as soon as his gun sight aligns with the 109, and as the enemy fighter wobbles off, wounded, Collins says nothing to the relieved thanks from the other pilot.

On the next flight out he gets a damaging hit on a Heinkel, but otherwise he manages no more good hits that day. There’s a dullness in his mind and a hyper-fixation that has him running ragged like a puppet on worn strings.

Come afternoon they’re relieved by their second Flight. Another lucky break today, Collins muses to himself with an unwelcome bitterness; no casualties, no serious wounds, only a few more damaged aircraft that had managed to limp back to base. The second squadron on base wasn't so lucky, having lost two pilots over the Channel, both down in flames. 

He’s one of the last to land. There's a dull ache building up in the back of his head and behind his eyes, made worse by the rumbling of his plane as he lands along the grassy runway and zig-zags his way back to dispersal. Climbing out he sees a number of the men huddled up, pilots and ground crew from both squadrons gathered in an excitable crowd near one of the hangars. 

Thinking nothing of it, he occupies himself with trying to keep his footing as he slides down his wing and back onto solid ground, willing his joints to stop protesting his every move and his head to stop spinning. His stomach clenches, still empty and upset from earlier. Sweat beads on his skin, flopping golden hair down into his eyes as he drags his flight helmet off.

“Oi, Collins!”

A sigh. How many times has he heard his name shouted today? The past few days? 

Stomping down his irritability with a sharp inhale, he drags his eyes up to the commotion a few yards away. The pilot who’d excitedly called his name waves him over, stepping aside just enough that Collins can better see into the huddle of bodies.

And he stops.

The helmet slips from his fingers.

It’s not possible, surely?

How can he be…?

Perhaps he’s finally gone crazy, except the few boys who’ve noticed his widened eyes are chuckling to themselves like they _ know_. Surely they aren’t privy to his hallucinations?

Collins saw his plane disappear over the horizon. Far over the beach and well past enemy lines. He'd be captured, if he wasn't outright killed, and even then assuming he survived the landing at all. There was no coming back from that choice.

And yet…

The breath catches deep in his throat. His heart stutters, building to a thunderous beat felt down to his fingers. His body shudders with the force of his anxieties, a typhoon at his core. All his bitterly crushed hope comes swelling up like a tidal wave, and this time he lets it drown him. 

The squadron did always believe Farrier was the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

It’s as if he’s seeing a ghost; a loved one back from the dead. A friend you hadn’t seen in years, which Collins had all but expected him to become; just a distant memory. But memories don’t walk back into your life like this. 

A dream, then. Surely he’ll wake up any minute now. This is simply too good to be true.

No, he must really be here. There’s a gash across his temple and a slight limp in his step that’s offsetting his weight. There's no way Collins would imagine that. 

It’s been just two days; two long, arduous days he surely thought would extend into a lifetime. 

He's never been so thrilled to be wrong. 

With the haziness of his addled mind Collins can only stare. His throat has gone dry, and his lips move in helpless silence trying to form his name; a name he hadn’t wanted to hear again, let alone pass his lips any time soon. 

Luckily, in the middle of all the nattering one of the boys nudges Farrier’s shoulder. The conversation dies as he quirks a brow, before following their eagerly pointed finger in Collins’ direction. 

His mouth twitches as Farrier’s eyes land on him; Collins can only imagine what he must be thinking. There's a moment of slowly dawning realization, then his face lights up, and it's nothing short of breathtaking. 

Farrier is urgently pushing through the others towards him in an instant, but for all that he wants to, Collins can’t make his legs move to meet him. Instead he sinks down, knees buckling until he’s slumped in the grass, glassy-eyed and with an uncontrollable urge to laugh until his sides hurt.

Through his smile his eyes blur at the edges and he presses the back of his hand over his mouth to stifle whatever strangled noise is trying to push past his lips. 

Before his exhausted body can give out entirely Farrier is there, sliding to his knees to catch him in a hug tight enough to crush the stuttered breath from his lungs. 

"You're alright," Farrier mutters next to his ear, over and over, a warm breath so full of relief that Collins inadvertently presses closer to the sound.

"I should be saying that to you.” He gets his fingers deep into Farrier’s jacket, gripping tighter than he ever thought his tired muscles could manage. “You crazy bastard.”

“I know, I know,” Farrier smiles into his hair, one hand curling around the back of his neck, offering a reassuring caress along the skin. 

In the non-existent space between them his heartbeat becomes a rapid pounding against Collins’ own ribs, and it works to mollify him some. 

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Farrier leans his head into Collins’ slightly, a faint hum in his ear. As if he honestly needs to think it through.

“It felt right, at the time.”

Now what is Collins supposed to say to that? He can’t very well in good conscience accuse him of making the _ wrong _choice. Collins knows all too well the reality they live in. He can’t say for sure what he would have done, had he been the one left alone in the air. 

Something dour slips into Farrier’s voice then, and he hugs just a bit tighter. “I had to light her up, though. On the beach.”

_ Ah_. 

It’s a gut-wrenching thing to see a plane go up, and even worse if she’s torched by your own hand. It hurts like hell, and Farrier cares for his kite like he cares for the men, and he handles her masterfully, like she’s an extension of himself. It’s all too easy to imagine the glow of fire in his eyes as he watched the violent end of his Spitfire; like losing a squad mate, a friend, and what surely should have been his only means of escape and safe return. 

Collins had abandoned his to the sea, after all; left to drown in the cold dark waters. Which burial is worse to bear, he wonders.

So he nods his understanding and breathes deeply, eyes watching the dancing blades of grass around them while he struggles to justify his wounded heart.

“Were you scared? When you turned back?”

The question is only partially intentional, the words more of an accidental slip of the tongue. Nevertheless Collins holds his breath and awaits the answer. 

It comes after a long pause, a twitch of fingers, and a loud exhale that tickles across his neck. 

“Suppose I was, a little. It was hard. I don’t regret it, though.”

Collins chuckles, emotionless and dry. “Well you wouldn’t, would you?”

A response much more bitter than he intends, and it’s clear Collins’ words are determined to run away on him.

Farrier pulls back just enough for their eyes to meet, the lines of his face falling back into repose. It gives Collins a good glimpse of the wound over his eye and the small stain of blood and reddened skin around it. He wants to ask, of course - about _ all _of it - and Farrier watches his eyes wander with the corner of his mouth quirked up like he knows.

“I _ am _sorry,” Farrier soothes, still speaking low enough that the words can only be meant for him. “Really. I’m just glad you made it back in one piece.” 

Collins screws his eyes shut, then relaxes, reeling his wild thoughts back into order. “Aye, I’m here. So please, just… don’t do that again.”

It’s meant to sound casual, but it tumbles out of his mouth much too heavily. Perhaps it’s a selfish - if not a wholly impractical - request, but Collins isn’t really assured of its ability to be kept, anyways. 

To his surprise Farrier cups his face between his hands, still rough and grimy from his journey. They ignore the whistles and chattering of their unwitting crowd of onlookers. Any vanity is all but forgotten. Collins only stares back into the wet shine of Farrier’s eyes in silence.

“It’s damn good to see you, Collins.”

There’s no hope of calming his nerves, there’s simply too many cracks in the wall. So he doesn’t fight, rather he gives into this rare moment of permissible affection, curls his fingers into the sleeves of Farrier’s jacket, and allows himself to shake and smile and laugh like he’s not aged a millennia in the last few months. There’s a warm glow filling the emptiness in his chest, every breath relieving the weight from his shoulders.

“Welcome back, Farrier.” Is all he manages to say in return, not much above a whisper, and it’s not enough. It’s not even close to everything he wants to say.

There’s a story to be had in Farrier’s wounds and the dirt and the weariness in his eyes, but it’s for another time. Collins locks all his questions away behind his teeth, and instead tries not to think of the future before them.

For now the universe has done him a kindness, bringing him back this precious thing, and he intends to hold tight to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe it's my interest in world war history, maybe it's the cinematography, maybe it's the raw emotions it brought out, maybe it's all that juicy potential for the characters left open to the viewer, but I absolutely adored this movie. Alas, these flyboys stole my heart, as did all the possibilities for their story, and the history itself. This fic does not do my feelings for them justice, it's just something I needed to get out.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [hollowmachines](https://hollowmachines.tumblr.com/)


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